Confetti Through Glass
by arctique48
Summary: She watches at her sisters wedding, standing with her husband, and feels so alone. One shot


**Disclaimer: Hogwarts etc belongs to JKR.**

* * *

Beautiful. It seemed the only word that could really describe that day for you. Perfect. Beautiful. Magical. The flowers, the gowns, the brightly smiling guests. It was perfect. The perfect wedding. And you hated it.

You had woken up to the sound of birds. Birds on a beautiful summer day, with sunlight and not a cloud in sight. It was warm but not too warm, a light breeze but nothing more. It had been perfect weather.

You had pulled on a dressing gown and wandered downstairs. Down to the kitchen. Your parent's kitchen. It was full and bustling with caterers, relatives and bridesmaids, all loud noises and happy chattering.

There was something about it that made your chest contract. It wasn't the happy nattering and the beaming faces; it wasn't even the overpowering smell of flowers. It was a sense of nostalgia this house never ceased to bring to you. It was the sharp pang of jealousy that had so often come to you when faced with your sister's impending happiness.

It wasn't that you were unhappy with your life, far from it. You husband was everything you could wish him to be. Hard working, sensible and a good provider. He was everything a mother would wish for her daughter and you were content… But there was something in the flushed look of happiness in your sister's face, the glow of pure delight that came to her whenever _his _name was mentioned… something in that woke the hopeless romantic in you, the part of your personality you thought you had long ago crushed. It was pathetic, you told yourself. (Pathetic but beautiful.)

Ignoring _her_ friends and their talk of love and gorgeous eyes and doting grooms you pulled out a mug and made some tea.

Your mother had accosted you somewhere between your tea and leaving to return to your room. (Not _your_ room, not the room you lived out your childhood in, with its yellow walls and cream curtains. That had been given to the mother of the groom.) She looked as giddy as the bride (pink cheeks and cheery bright smiles). She handed you your dress (understated, sleek – not your taste at all), told you to get dressed and come down for the dressmaker to make any adjustments.

You remember you stood in front of the mirror for ten full minutes before you left your room. (Not _your _room. The guest room. A guest in your old home, it stung.) You stood there and cried because the dress was beautiful. It was sleek and understated (and not your taste at all) and it was beautiful. Totally flattering, complimenting your figure and your complexion completely. You stood there and cried, because on that day, on the day of your sister's marriage, you looked more beautiful than you had at your own wedding.

Your wedding had been everything you had wished it to be since you were five years old. It was pink and white and so fairytale your mother had cried. There had been pink roses and white roses and pink bridesmaids and a white wedding dress that you had chosen yourself and it was beautiful. You were married in a church and the reception was in a hotel of your husband's cousin. It had been the best day of your life.

But you looked in the mirror, soon to be a bridesmaid at _her_ wedding as she was at yours, and you felt so bad. Because you looked beautiful. And she had looked bad because you chose the dresses specifically for that. You chose them because her hair was red and clashed horribly with pink. You chose them because then you would be the most beautiful at your wedding. You chose them because you hadn't wanted to be overshadowed by your little sister on the most perfect day of your life. And looking in that mirror, you felt so bad you cried, because she was better than that, and she made you look beautiful even though you hated her.

But your mother called, so you wiped your eyes and turned from your reflection, heading downstairs again.

The dressmaker was in the sitting room. (One of _them_ with her robes and Latin and _magic_ amongst your television and still pictures.) She smiled at you and you nodded quietly. ("Be on your Best behaviour. If you spoil this for Lily…" Mum had said.)

The other bridesmaids were her friends from school. They didn't like you and you didn't like them. But they were her bridesmaids because she wanted them there for her, because they were great friends and had been for years, and you were her bridesmaid because your mother had bullied her into it. Just as she had done with you, when you gave her a pink dress that clashed with her hair because you were bitter and spiteful. She was always the mature one (with her books and answers and _magic_).

One of her friends from school did your hair. It looked beautiful. You felt sick.

You had stood and watched while she fretted to her friends about whether she was doing right thing.

"What if it's too soon…" She had whispered. "We're only nineteen."

You had scowled because you thought she _was _too young. Only a year out of school and his job was dangerous, you had heard. What kind of provider was that?

But her friend shook her head. She hugged her and said the strangest thing. "You love each other Lily. You know as well as we do you're doing the right thing…. And in times like these… Well. It's best to hold onto what you've got."

She had sniffed, eyes bright, and you had watched as she nodded and smiled and pulled back. "Thank you." She had said.

You remembered your wedding. Standing before a mirror in your dress. You had doubted. You had thought you were too young perhaps. You had wondered if you were doing the right thing… But you hadn't spoken. Your bridesmaids were yours are your husband's sisters, your friends were not friends for life. So you didn't say a word, and doubted and reasoned and sorted it out yourself.

You had got in the car with her friends. A blonde with a pretty smile (she looked as happy as the bride on that day), a tall girl with dark hair and classical features, a brunette with a kind laugh… They didn't like you but they were polite. _She_ went with your mum and your dad and the mother of the groom (tall, dark features, kind smile). You had been surprised they took a car at all. Shouldn't it be all broomsticks and magic carpets? Perhaps you whispered that thought because the laughing brunette had said that Lily wanted it as close to home as possible, though James had been more set on the idea of horse drawn carriages.

At first you had thought it strange they were getting married in a church. Lily had been christened a catholic same as you, but you could not see how they would allow two of _her_ kind to be married on hallowed ground. (Abominations. Godless. Devil spawn.) But your father had explained that it was to be one of _their _churches. One of the magical ones. Dated back to mid twelfth century, he said, survived the Reformation. And then your mother had given one of her lectures ("She's your _sister, _Petunia!") that sent you back to your suburban home and your sensible husband, shamefaced and bitter.

You arrived at the small chapel in a flurry of new faces and cameras. Your sister ran up to a sandy haired boy (not a man, surely?) with a tired smile and kind eyes (all so kind, where did she find such friends?). She hugged him and he hugged her back and she asked a hurried question and he laughed. "Even if Sirius had sent him to Sydney overnight he would have sold his soul to get back here. Your faith in him is somewhat lacking, considering."

She had smiled and responded that is was not her soon-to-be-husband she didn't trust, but his best man. She had muttered "Whoever suggested the stag night be left in control of Sirius Black, the night before my wedding should be shot, leaving me so much to worry about..." He had laughed, wished her luck and was gone through the doors.

Your mum hugged you and told you to be good, then she hugged Lily and cried a bit (happy tears, everyone was so happy). Then the two mothers went in and left you outside with your father, your sister and her friends.

The music started and you followed her in, clutching your small bouquet of flowers as though it were your lifeline. The congregation was a small one, few of your family (they didn't know what she was, what _he _was) and fewer of his ("his family are in a dangerous position" she had said quietly, "enemies of Voldemort don't last long anymore…"). Friends from her school filled the larger part of the seating (with their robes and smiles and _magic_), the sandy haired boy sat near the front with a shorter, chubbier one (they were smiling, looking so, so happy), and those who you could only suspect were teachers sat smiling nearer the back (long beard, stern bun, all smiling). Then by the door you saw your husband, distinctly uncomfortable but there all the same. You smiled at him and he nodded back. (Everything you could want from a marriage. Good provider.)

Then she had reached the altar and you had stood to the side. And she looked so happy and he smiled so much and they were so much in love that you had concentrated on the flowers in your hands and ignored all romantic notions that washed over you like some mind numbing disease. (Content. You were content and that was all you needed.)

They had said their vows and exchanged their rings and you truly believed he meant every word. He lived for her and if it came to it he would die for her too. Because that was what she did to people. Lily – your sister. She inspired commitment. A forever kind of love. (And sometimes you couldn't resent her more for that.) They had kissed and were so much in love and there were cameras and happy faces and flurries of dancing confetti that scattered in the light breeze. You watched and were silent.

Back into the car and off to the reception. (At _his_ house. Little short of a manor with its Regency style front and sweeping staircases.) There were photos and cake and happy well-wishers, and then there was music and you stayed at your husband's side and watched the happy couple dance with their friends.

The best man (attractive, all smiles and laughs and jokes, he looked as happy as the groom) made a speech that had everyone laughing (it made you wish to have her friends and hate her for her perfect world where bigheaded boys flew around and got slapped and compared with squids).

A few of their friends from work wandered around, they smiled and wished the happy couple well before conferring in hushed voices with frowns. It made you uncomfortable (abominations. Whispering in corners with their robes and wands and _magic_.), you heard the words 'attack' and 'losses' but they resolved not to tell the bride and groom and no more was said on the matter.

You asked your husband if he was going to dance and he said it would be best you didn't mix with their type. And you found yourself agreeing as _he_ pulled her into his arms and held her with so much love and care that you hated him.

An hour or so passed and you stood alone by the window, with your husband by your side, watching the others as though through glass. (You could watch but not touch. Never touch.) You didn't belong there and you knew it. And by your side your husband knew it too.

It was with a bitter heart you left that day. A muttered farewell to your parents, a final glance at your sister, and then you were gone. Back in the passenger seat of your husband's sensible company car, heading back to your sensible suburban home with its sensible garden and sensible stairs. You looked down and felt like crying because you were wearing the most beautiful dress (sleek, understated and flattering) to go home and do some ironing, watch the evening news and go to bed. Because while you loved your husband in a sensible sort of way your marriage wasn't about fighting dragons and riding off into sunset with red roses and charming smiles. You looked out the window and felt like crying because your sister (abomination, freak) had everything you dreamed of as a child… She had her fairytale castle and white unicorns and Prince Charming who would give her a beautiful wedding ring and slay dragons for her.

You loved your husband (he had come today for you. He hates her more than you do), but he didn't slay dragons or promise you the moon (he promises you security, a good home for your child), and some unreasonable part of you (you know it's unreasonable, but you cant help it) resents her for stealing the future you dreamed of having. With her Prince Charming and her castles and her magic. Some unreasonable part of you doesn't think you'll ever forgive her for that.


End file.
